Taken Aim
by swaggyzebraTW
Summary: Bell wakes up in the hospital after getting shot. His hand is all messed up, and he can't help but replay the scene of the shooting over and over again in his head. Sherlock pays him a visit, along with someone else. Is this other visitor wanted? Or will he try to harm Bell? Was the bullet meant for Sherlock after all? OOC. Watson/Sherlock in future.


**AN: I literally just started watching "Elementary", and I have only seen four episodes. Of season two. So, I have literally no clue about the real traits of the characters, I am merely going off of assumptions I have made. I haven't read any other fan fiction for the fandom. I am as new to this as I can get. GO EASY ON CRITICISM PLEASE. No hate saying how I don't know anything about the show, because I am opening admitting right now that I don't. I apologize in advance. **

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this, all rights go to CBS and their people. **

It had all happened so fast. Too fast for anyone's liking. One minute, I had been arguing with Holmes over his wishes to teach me the graceful art of fencing; then next, I was jumping in front of a bullet, taking it in my body as valiantly as remotely possible. No doubt was it a brave act at the time, however I was now finding the repercussions of it unwanted.

As I lay in this hospital bed, surrounded by the ever irritating noises of hospital machinery, I can't help but replay the scene in my head over and over again. For some odd reason, the white walls and chrome plated instruments happened to spark the short flow of memories.

The pain I felt upon the impact of the bullet as it had lodged itself into my gut had almost been unbearable, and I acutely remember the way it had crippled me, just moments before I had lost consciousness. The pavement had felt so soft against my palms as they flattened against it, supporting my waist as I fell to the cold ground. The sensation had been odd to say the least, as had been getting torn apart via a high speed projectile sent from a handgun only a few feet away.

I remembered the frenzied cries of civilian passerby's, along with the hopeless flow of words that had spouted from Joan Watson's mouth as she bent down beside my crumpled form. Her hands had torn at my T-Shirt, scrambling to expose the bullet wound in my side. I hadn't felt her hands press against the wound, though I had been them. I recalled being frightened at that moment, as ever Sherlock had a look of utter surprise and worry etched onto his paled face.

"Stay with me, Marcus." Watson had said, practically begging me to keep my eyes from closing.

My own mouth hadn't been able to formulate a response to her pleas. I wanted to tell her that I was trying, that I didn't want to leave. In those few moments of vulnerability, I had felt like a small child, unshielded from the harnesses of the world. If I had been able to see my own eyes at that point in time, I probably would have seen fear in them. The fear that only a dying man could project. I didn't want to be a dead man. I was too young. Most victims were too young.

"Can we get an ambulance?" Joan asked impatiently, applying more pressure to my stomach as she turned her attention back to me. "You're going to be okay, Bell. Just hold on for a little longer, and you'll be in the clear. Please."

It was not long after she said that when I had heard the beginnings of approaching sirens as they wailed in the distance. Time had seemed to slow. My breaths had become more labored, nearing the danger zone if I hadn't reached it yet. Everything began to dim, and darkness encroached on my vision. "Don't let me go." I begged softly, in what was probably nothing more than a hoarse whisper of desperation. "I don't want to die."

"You're not going to die, Marcus." Joan said, tears brimming her eyes. "I won't let you."

It was that very moment when I had passed out entirely, for what could have been either a few minutes or a few days. After waking up in a dingy and dank hospital room, I suspected the latter.

I was in the middle of replaying that scene for the millionth time since waking up when I hear d footsteps and artificial throat-clearing, which resulted in me snapping out of my musings. Turning, I noticed the tall frame of none other than Sherlock Holmes. He was fidgeting uncomfortably a few feet away, wringing his hands in front of him. I waited for him to speak, looking expectantly in the mean time.

He got the hint eventually, and pushed his qualms aside. "I apologize for your being shot."

I nodded slightly, still not saying a single word. Sherlock took it as a signal to continue.

"The last few days could have gone very differently. If we had changed anything, or if I hadn't egged on that asshole in the middle of the street, you would be fine right now." He said, looking towards the tiled floor. "I guess what I mean to say is, I'm sorry. I should have predicted such a gruesome consequence for my actions. I'm sorry, Marcus."

Well, that was pretty deep. For Holmes, anyway. "Well, it wasn't your fault, Sherlock, but I'm pretty sure you already deduced that, haven't you?" I said bitterly. I wasn't in the mood for visitors.

His eyebrows twitched, and he moved his gaze from the floor to a wall. "Logically speaking, it wasn't my fault, but that doesn't mean that I can't feel badly about what happened."

I didn't respond, and he pulled a business card out of his vest. "I have gone through my contacts to find the best people for your arm,"—He handed me that card before drawing another—"The first one is the best one in the world, who happens to have a representative who travels here frequently, while the second is the best in the area. I gave them both calls and they would be willing to help you."

"I have faith in the doctors here." I said harshly, pushing myself up and out of the chair. "You don't owe me anything, Sherlock. I don't need any more of your help."

I walked towards the door, only to hear Sherlock calling after me. "Please reconsider, Marcus. It could be of help to you."

"I don't require your help." I mumbled, closing the door behind me and locking Sherlock into the rooftop observatory.

Thinking back on it, that was certainly an unnecessary way to address Holmes. Sure, he could be an arrogant pain in everyone's ass, but he didn't purposefully try to injure people. He and Watson were amazing at their jobs, and they have a system that works for everyone, most of the time. I had never meant to get shot in their plans, and he obviously felt badly. He even tried to help me, in his own obnoxious way. I guess I could use one of those doctors.

I walked along the blank hallways towards my assigned room, and it took me only a few minutes to find the right door, much to my distaste. I was already beginning to get accustomed to this dump. I made note to leave as soon as possible. Surprisingly enough, I was already missing my job, and wished to get back to it. Even if I was to be stationed at a desk, it would still be better than doing absolutely nothing.

A nurse exited the room just as I was about the enter. She nodded in greeting, her hands full with hospital supplies. "Good night, Mr. Bell."

"Thanks," I said, and my mouth opened to offer to help her. She waved me off politely, giving a pitiful smile, and I remembered that I couldn't help her. My hand was useless. I was becoming useless.

She passed, holding the door open for me using her foot. I felt bad. People think that I'm not even capable of opening a door for myself. How could my life get any worse? Scratch that, I thought, it could be mud worse. I could be held captive by some terrorists, I could be torchured, fed to some sharks, drowned and revived repetitively, branded, burnt on a stake; the list continues with seemingly no end.

The door closed with a soft click behind me, enclosing me in the darkness of hospital dankness. The lights were dimmed, suggesting sleep, but I knew it wouldn't come. Not tonight. There was too much to think about, too many escape plans to plot, too little time to ponder what I should do next.

I sat down on the bed, allowing it to dip down with a long creaking sound, that echoed into the otherwise silent room. The pillows and plastic sheeting crinkled under my weight, screaming in protest. I tried to close my eyes and get a little rest that way, but another sound broke any hopes of that.

Looking to the door, I saw a short frame enter the room. I squinted in the light, and by the time I recognized who it was, it was too late. I knew my screams would go unheard, I would be defenseless, and I would die. For real this time. There would be no error, and he was here to finish the job.

I stared blankly into the face of none other than the man who had shot me just a day earlier.

"Detective Bell." He addressed me, a smirk spreading along his greasy features.

I sneered, fear striking my eyes as he pulled a knife out of his pocket. "Care to hear what the real plan had been all along?" He asked, taunting.

I shook my head in disbelief. "That bullet was never meant for Sherlock, was it?"

"Of course not," The man stated, studying the knife blade in his hand as he chuckled to himself. "The bullet was meant for you, and due to my terrible aim, it happened to fly towards Holmes. Lucky you were brave enough to take the bullet for him. I'm sure my associates wouldn't have minded seeing him dead, though. Not many of us tend to like him and his general snoopy nature."

"Why me?" I asked, trying to stall the inevitable.

"Why you?" He said, anger making its way into his previously calm and cool tone. "You have put so many of us away. It's not a secret that you're one of the best detectives in New York. Everyone wants you dead. Miracle you've survived this long, if you ask me."

"Why kill me though? Why not Holmes or Watson? They do most of this investigating these days…"

He cut me off sharply. "For such an intelligent and well-respected man, you are incredibly daft, Detective Bell. I figured that you would have been able to fill in the dots I have ever-so graciously provided you with. After all, that is what your profession entails, correct?"

I gave a curt nod. "So, this must have been someone I previously locked away."

"Now you're beginning to understand. I might as well tell you the rest of the story, as you'll be dead momentarily. Maybe it will bring you a little more peace in the afterlife, eh?"

The man was getting to me, even with all of my training. I tried to convince myself that this man was a delusional crack head, but part of me just didn't believe it. To have gotten past hospital security, he would have had to have been either a genius, or have acute connections.

The only man I knew that would have been able to get have those connections, besides Sherlock of course, was Robert Cunnings; local mastermind that had been arrested by me over ten years ago for drug trafficking and weapon dealing. He had also been tried for several counts of murder, for which I was positive he had committed, although he was proven guilty to those allegations in the end. He had also just been released from prison for good behavioral reasons.

The man before me was not intelligent, in fact, he was but a messenger. For Robert Cunnings. Who wanted revenge so long ago, and who had vowed to kill me before he was torn away by guards. I had thought it as a bluff at the time, as most statements of that sort are, although, apparently not. I was going to die. Soon. There was no chance of escape at this point.

"You work for Robert Cunnings." I stated.

He nodded; that creepy smile making its way back onto his features. "Yes. You locked him away, and he is now coming back for you. He sent me to do his dirty work for him."

That didn't make any sense, though. Why would someone so vengeful allow another man to kill his target? Surely, he would want to kill me himself. Having this ass knock me out of the job would give Cunnings little to no pleasure. My getting shot would give him no credit if he didn't get caught doing it himself, and he wouldn't claim to do it. I had to have been missing something.

"Why didn't he come to take me out himself?" I asked.

The man's jaw tensed, and I saw anger flare into his eyes. "You don't need to know that."

Something was wrong with this scene, and it was more than my being about to get murdered. He was visibly maddened by my question, which made me think that this man wasn't following Cunnings' exact orders. Either that or he wasn't happy with his orders. I was determined to find out which before he got the chance to stab me.

I decided to use an old Sherlock tactic to make it seem as though I need everything about him, further agitate the man, and then trick him into letting his guard down long enough so that I could disarm him. "Why would he want a scum like you to kill me? Surely, you weren't even capable of killing me the first time, so what made him want you to do the deed?"

His facade of calmness and collection collapsed entirely. Under his disguise I spotted genuine hurt, and abuse. I no longer saw him as a ringleader, but a loyal follower. He was probably like that mentally ill knight that we had recently investigated, unable to fully comprehend the situation, and simply idolizing the one person they have grown to trust, regardless of that person's behavior. In this case, he had probably fell in with the wrong crowd.

"I am not scum! My master trust me with his life!" The man shouted indignantly, advancing towards me in a threatening manner.

"Really." I said, making myself sound skeptical. "Has he ever placed his life in your hands?"

Confusion crossed over his angered features as he stuttered, "No, I guess not."

"How do you know he's not using you, then?"

His hands began to shake uncontrollably with his rage. "It doesn't matter! You're trying to trick me into not killing you!"

"Maybe, but you seem pretty irked. Your master doesn't treat you very nice, does he?" I asked, trying to hide my true nerves.

"My master is just perfect!" The man defended, sweat now rolling off his forehead. Maybe Sherlock's tactic was working. I wasn't dead yet.

"Is he now? When did you get to choose what was for dinner?"

He paused, thinking it over. I used his distraction to my advantage, leaping up and knocking him to the cool tile flooring. The knife clattered out of his hands, landing a few feet away. The man struggled as I pinned him down, holding his wrists above his head with my good hand.

"Let me go!" He called loudly.

I smirked in triumph. "No."

I was about to lift him up, to take him to security, when my movements stopped at the sound of a click. The same click of a gun being cocked back, preparing to be fired. Cool metal pressed against one of my temples, the hand holding the gun steady.

**AN: Two-shot? Sorry, this was rushed, crappy, and really OOC in the end. If you did enjoy, review or something and I can continue it. Thanks for reading. **


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